Diary Notes: Lamentable Laissez-Faire
Diary Notes: Lamentable laissez-faire
…the lêche cul is
back
every cell of her a seething surging cesspool of putrid suck
the darling of the Prusso-Lepeniste muck:
all degenerate foul-mouthed mean-minded sick:
“I’ll grab his private parts thus ———>”
her scabrous claw relishing the plucking thrust
the latter-day Jeanne d’Arc of the revived Napoleonic Kingdom
she's back the neurotic blot on the wailing
phoney socialist rocambolesque reverie
not even the sparrows hug the hedges now
and no birds would sing in this worsted plain
Harvey spoils the eclipsed arc
the path of Yin is now well marked
all celebrating victories before they are won
the people the poor the duped left to their wits
in sewage pools eddying hopes slipping through dams and dykes
the people the poor
people always pay for the folly of hoisting fanfaron Pharoahs
up above pyramid pinnacles on palanquins
Yes, according to the very reverend Swift raiser of the race of Master Horses
the world west of the Silk Road now is divided into
Yahoos and the Netan-Yahoos
the jackboot now at last fits the untrodden masters
like a second moulted skin
Brexit isles moored and annexed to the new-found Land
She's back the lêche cul with her witches’ brooms and mops and
pails littered under the portico le portable stuck to her ear
proclaiming her arrival yet none gave her a long-awaited send-off
spying from a distance
“Let’s study the way he slips in
and slips out
of his cubicle door!”
this time from behind the kinder garten glass doors
all for the free
masonic fortress under foreign fiefdom
sun-burnt flesh reeks through the Mall
smacks of steak: raw or well-singed
the reek of rutting limbs is everywhere loud
in queues at milling supermarkets
at bus-stops
at postal bank self-service guichets
come September the unheeding dance and rejoice
October and their hinds begin to ache
November when the bruises bulges pulled muscles broken
promises make no bones of their State
the poor always pay for the mistakes and crimes of their masters
the moment of truth when thunder is stentorian
not a rumble on rails
nor a lone drone drawn out streak high in the sky heading for wind-swept isles
the hour of reckoning must be at hand
“I’ll grab his balls all in one hand:
See, what can he do? See!” says she
the lêche cul
This’s as far as the State can grasp
reduced to pilfering
reduced to a kind of stunted growth
the psyche stuck in a gluey paste
holding hands pressing pumping palms
waltzing on the Champs Elysée
lisping careless whispers:
“I’m never gonna dance again…
Guilty feet got no rhythm…
The way I danced with you oh oh…
So wrong that you had to leave me alone!”
Let’s plunder the proof he has
Then we can all kick his ass
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment